


Trigger Finger

by nishizono



Series: Sleight of Hand [4]
Category: Inception
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-03
Updated: 2012-09-03
Packaged: 2017-11-13 13:00:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/503801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nishizono/pseuds/nishizono
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Lights off, darling,” whispers Eames. There's nothing playful in the endearment. His voice is rough and low, and Arthur is suddenly reminded that Eames is not always the charming rogue who laughs his own jokes and pushes Arthur's buttons. He's a soldier; he's a former intelligence offer who's just as comfortable holding a sniper rifle as he is a cup of tea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trigger Finger

Arthur has thought about what it would be like to finally get Eames into bed; he's imagined Eames's hands all over him, and how it would be hot, and desperate, and good. Sometimes, Eames is playful in these fantasies, laughing against Arthur's ear until Arthur gives in and smiles, but most of the time they're wild for it, grabbing at each other until they're both covered in bruises.

Arthur should have known that Eames would surprise him.

They're both cagey in the elevator, keyed up and trying not to show it. Arthur might not have Eames's knack for body language, but even he can see the way Eames is flicking glances at the floor numbers, like he can somehow will the elevator to move faster. Arthur isn't faring much better, shifting his weight from foot to foot and quelling the urge to haul Eames up against him.

Eames follows Arthur out of the elevator and down the hall. He doesn't say a word, and he hangs a few meaningful steps behind. Arthur feels his skin prickle the way it does when there's a gun at his back. It's uncomfortable, and it's hot, and he fumbles with his key card a few times before fitting it into the slot.

Eames lets people forget sometimes that he's dangerous.

Arthur slides his hand across the wall, feeling for the light switch, but Eames grabs his wrist and pins it. The door swings shut behind them, trapping them in darkness, and Arthur's breath catches when he feels Eames's lips on the back of his ear. This isn't what he'd expected.

“Lights off, darling,” whispers Eames. There's nothing playful in the endearment. His voice is rough and low, and Arthur is suddenly reminded that Eames is not always the charming rogue who laughs his own jokes and pushes Arthur's buttons. He's a soldier; he's a former intelligence offer who's just as comfortable holding a sniper rifle as he is a cup of tea.

“Shit,” Arthur breathes, lets the word slip out before he can stop it. He drops his head forward to bare the back of his neck, and he's rewarded with a full-body push from Eames that crowds him against the wall.

“You're not in a hurry, are you?” asks Eames, sliding his free hand up Arthur's stomach. It's slow but intense, with just the right amount of pressure to make Arthur shudder. The side of Eames's thumb grazes Arthur's nipple, and Eames pauses for a moment with his hand around Arthur's throat before sliding his fingers into Arthur's mouth. He sighs against Arthur's ear and whispers, “Arthur, you've really got no idea--”

But Arthur is pretty goddamn sure he gets it. He proves it by shoving his ass back in a slow, filthy grind against Eames's crotch. His patience had been shredded anyway and having Eames finally pressed against him, trapping him against the wall and finger-fucking his mouth, is destroying what's left of his self-control.

Eames's breath hitches, and he thrusts against Arthur's ass a few times before pulling away completely.

“What--?” Arthur begins, already dazed. He turns around and slumps against the wall, hips canted forward in a needy, aborted thrust that would be embarrassing if--

Fuck, if Eames wasn't looking at him the way he is. Now that Arthur's eyes have adjusted to the darkness, he can see the controlled tightness of Eames's jaw, the want in his eyes as his gaze slides whisper-smooth down Arthur's body.

“Eames, god damn it,” groans Arthur, slipping a hand between his legs to squeeze himself. “Fuck, come _on_.”

“Undress,” says Eames, flicking a downward glance at Arthur's hand before looking him in the eye. That's somehow even hotter than if he'd kept staring at Arthur's hand, at where Arthur is practically jerking off through his trousers.

“I'm not a fucking stripper,” says Arthur, even though he's already tugging his belt open. His buckle clatters loudly in the quiet room, and the noise sends a shudder through him. He sags lower against the wall and tugs his waistband down, over his leaking cock and under the curve of his ass, and fuck, Eames is still watching his face. Arthur lets his trousers fall and then kicks them aside. He tips his head back and suppresses a whimper.

“Christ, you're lovely.” Eames grits the words out like a curse. His fingers twitch at his sides, and Arthur's whole body jerks.

He could ruin Eames, he thinks. They could probably ruin each other.

Arthur licks his lips.

Eames is on him in a flash, kissing him for the first time ever and grabbing him by the hips, hauling him away from the wall and toward the bed. And fuck, _this_ was what Arthur had expected, these hot, hungry noises Eames is making into his mouth and the way Eames's fingers dig too hard into his ribs. Eames shoves him onto the mattress and presses him down into the sheets, slipping a finger between their mouths while they kiss and then pushing it between Arthur's legs to skim his hole.

Arthur nearly loses it; he nearly comes all over himself just from Eames playing with his ass.

“Don't,” says Eames, like he knows what Arthur is thinking. He pushes up to his knees, still fully dressed although devastatingly rumpled. Arthur can practically see his self-control slipping back into place.

“God damn it.” Arthur reaches for him. “Would you just-- fuck--”

“Shut up, Arthur,” says Eames. He shoves Arthur's thighs apart, and fuck, Arthur had almost forgotten how strong Eames is; he'd forgotten that Eames's sprawls hide two hundred pounds of muscle.

Arthur's toes curl in the sheets, and he's not embarrassed by how wrecked he sounds when he whines, “Eames, stop fucking teasing.”

“I'm not teasing, darling,” Eames replies softly. He pushes his finger against Arthur's ass. “This _is_ what you want, isn't it? What you've been after for the last three weeks? God, Arthur, do you know how hard it's been for me? How many times I've wanted to pull you into my lap and finger-fuck you, Dominic Cobb and his plans be damned?”

The spit on Eames's finger isn't enough to ease the burn, but Arthur takes it anyway. He spreads his legs and grabs the headboard, and fucks himself down onto Eames's finger because he's _finally_ getting what he wants.

“My god, Arthur,” breathes Eames. He lifts one of Arthur's legs up over his shoulders. “God, you're such an incredible little slag, darling, fuck, I could make a fortune from charging people to watch the kind of show you're putting on. You're wasted as a point man.”

Arthur wants shut Eames up, wants to cut him back down to size, but every fucking syllable skitters through him, electric-hot and sharp. His dick is dripping, and his balls are tight, and he can only find enough breath to pant, “Put your cock in my mouth.”

Eames shoves his fingers in and leaves them there while he glares at Arthur with his nostrils flaring and his mouth tight.

“Shit,” breathes Arthur, shivering so hard his ribs hurt, and god, he wants to come so badly. He's halfway there just from the look on Eames's face.

Eames moves fast for a man his size. He flips them both around and rearranges them so he's lying on his back with Arthur sprawled atop him. Arthur's face is near Eames's crotch, and he's barely caught his breath before Eames is reaching down and yanking open his trousers.

“This is what you really wanted, isn't it?” Arthur pants as he bats Eames's hand away. He doesn't even bother to push Eames's pants off; he just tugs them down to free Eames's cock, and fuck. _Fuck_. It's even better than he'd imagined: thick, and hard, and uncut, and if he wasn't so close to blowing his load all over Eames's chest, he'd love to take his time. He'd flick his tongue across the tip and then push it beneath the foreskin. He'd rub his cheek against the shaft until Eames was begging him to suck it, then swallow the whole thing in one go. He'd worship a dick like Eames's.

“Arthur.” There's a needy edge to Eames's voice this time. He touches Arthur's hair like he wants to force Arthur's head down but he's afraid he'd be pushing his luck.

What he doesn't know is that Arthur would let him. With that cock, and those hands? God, Arthur would let Eames do anything.

Eames chokes when Arthur sucks him down. His fingers tense on Arthur's thighs, and Arthur feels his hips flex like he wants to thrust but won't. It's fucking _agonizing_ for Arthur, having this much raw power underneath him and so close to losing control.

Arthur pulls off of Eames's cock with a filthy, wet noise and says, “Fingers, Eames. Come on. Jesus.”

Eames growls and bites Arthur's thigh until Arthur grunts in protest. He reaches back to slap Eames's cheek, but before his fingers can make contact, Eames's tongue is sliding into him. It's hot, and wet, and nasty, and Arthur loses his fucking mind.

He doesn't think about what he's doing when he sucks Eames's dick back into his mouth; he doesn't bother with technique as he swallows it down and then pulls back again, and grinds his ass against Eames's mouth. The head of his cock is rubbing Eames's shirt, leaving smears of precome all over the cotton, and Arthur wants that; he wants to leave Eames filthy and stinking of sex. He wants to swallow Eames's spunk, and he wants to come with Eames's fingers up his ass.

Arthur doesn't know if he says any of that out loud or if Eames just somehow knows, but suddenly Eames's tongue is gone, and there are fingers pushing into him. He doesn't know how many Eames has inside him, doesn't think he really cares; he's stuffed full and aching, and Eames is finger-fucking him so hard his knuckles are bruising Arthur's tailbone.

“Fuck, that's it, love,” Eames groans. “God, you'll take whatever I give you, won't you? Fuck, Arthur, you're so fucking wonderful, you're bloody amazing.”

Arthur shoots off first, without even meaning to, but he can't be disappointed, not with the hot, helpless noise Eames makes when Arthur clamps down on his fingers. Arthur moans and shoves back hard. He swallows Eames's dick as he comes with short jerks of his hips, and he covers Eames's chest with thick ropes of spunk. He's so fucking out of it that he barely registers Eames's orgasm; he just drinks down Eames's load, swallows around Eames's prick until Eames is whimpering underneath him.

It's only after they've both gone limp that Arthur carefully pulls his mouth away and rests his cheek on Eames's thigh. Eames is panting underneath him with his fingers still buried Arthur's ass. He groans when Arthur pushes back, and Arthur shivers in response, but he's so wrung out he can barely stay awake.

They lie there until Arthur starts to drift off, at which point Eames eases out from underneath him. Arthur wonders if he should get up and see Eames to the door, but he feels wrecked from his orgasm and drugged from so many nights without sleep, so he just buries his face in the pillow.

Somehow, he's not surprised when Eames yawns and stretches out beside him.

“Are you staying?” mumbles Arthur, too exhausted to panic about the answer.

“No,” says Eames. He glides a knuckle down the curve of Arthur's spine.

Arthur grunts and closes his eyes. He can hear Eames breathing behind him, slow and barely audible like a man with his finger on a trigger, waiting for the space between two heartbeats.


End file.
